Waiting for the Rest to Come
by april leigh
Summary: "I don't touch him. I knew that I wouldn't. I used to be embarrassed when these impulses rose up in me, and proud when I could shove them back down, but not anymore. Now I'm only sad. Sad because I'm afraid that I'll always be able to shove, when all I wa


Title: Waiting for the Rest to Come  
  
Author: april leigh  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Category: A, MSR  
  
Spoilers: Detour; Orison; Closure  
  
Timeline: takes place a few weeks after the events of Closure  
  
Archive: Ask first  
  
Disclaimer: Ha! If they were mine, you would be watching this, not reading it.  
  
Feedback: always a good thing, e-mail: aprilleigh50@hotmail.com  
  
Other stories by me can be found at: http://www.geocities.com/aprilleigh50/  
  
Summary: "I don't touch him. I knew that I wouldn't. I used to be embarrassed  
when these impulses rose up in me, and proud when I could shove them back down,  
but not anymore. Now I'm only sad. Sad because I'm afraid that I'll always be  
able to shove, when all I want to do is pull. Pull him into me."  
  
  
* * * * * *  
Mulder sleeps these days.  
  
Not that he hadn't slept before; it's just that I never really saw it.  
  
There was that one time in the Florida forest, where he managed to pass out in  
my lap, despite my singing, but that hardly counted. He did sleep, but there was  
no rest that night.  
  
There is an important difference between the two.  
  
In all of our years together, it was always me who drifted off on the planes, on  
the stakeouts, on the drives across the country. But I didn't sleep that night.  
That night I stayed awake for him; I told him that I would keep watch, and that  
he needed his sleep. I know that he believed me, he trusted me to stay awake,  
but he still couldn't let himself rest. He knew that there was something out  
there that night, and he didn't want to risk not being ready for it.  
  
How could I resent him for that?  
  
But now, now things are different. He doesn't need to stay awake anymore.  
Whatever he'd experienced in those woods that night in California had been  
enough to bring him peace. He told me that he'd seen his sister that night, and  
whether I believe him or not, I know that he was speaking the truth when he told  
me he was free. I had seen that undeniable truth within him. A part of him knew  
that he didn't need to stay awake now. That during his unconscious hours,  
Samantha could not slip through his fingers.  
  
But even as I explain this to myself, I can't help but resent him.  
  
It was never me he was looking for.  
  
I push that thought away.  
  
I feel guilty for having these thoughts. I should be happy for him. Happy that  
he's found this kind of peace, this rest. But when I look at Mulder these days,  
I'm not sure what I am seeing. He isn't the same man that I have known all of  
these years. Something inside of him has changed, and that makes me afraid. Now  
he is the one who sleeps, and it is I who cannot.  
  
Things have become unbalanced and I feel like I'm about to tip over if I don't  
watch my step.  
  
I don't know what will happen now, but I know that I don't want to watch my step  
anymore; I just want to watch him.  
  
It started on the plane ride back from California. We were both eager to leave  
and we did not complain about the late flight. The plane was quiet and half  
empty, and I was looking forward to sleeping through the flight. He took the  
aisle, as was his custom, and I took the window. The seat between us remained  
empty.  
  
That plane ride was the last time I really slept. My head propped up against the  
window with a too small, too flat pillow, and my jacket as a blanket. That was  
the last time I was a able to escape the waking world.  
  
I don't know what woke me mid flight. When consciousness began filtering in,  
there was nothing that drew my attention. The plane was subdued and the flight  
smooth.  
  
It took me longer than it should have to notice Mulder's head in my lap. He'd  
found a pillow of his own and had placed it between his head and the top of my  
thighs. He lay on his back, head in my lap, legs in the aisle, asleep. I  
remember being surprised by this fact. He was asleep. And he was resting. He was  
comfortable as he lay in my lap. Comfortable. Strange that such a normal word  
could fit him.  
  
Those isolated times that I've had to waken him, I never had to grip his  
shoulder or speak loudly into his ear to bring him back into the conscious  
world. Those few times he woke so quickly and easy that my mere presence was all  
it took.  
  
I always took some kind of comfort in that fact.  
  
But he didn't wake up this time; even as I shifted in my seat attempting to find  
a more comfortable position for both of us. He did not wake and I did not have  
the heart to forcibly rouse him, especially when he shifted and turned his body  
toward me. His right arm moved to curl around my waist and his face actually  
nuzzled my abdomen.  
  
I think that it was at that moment my rest fled me.  
  
That was the first time I could just look at him, really look at him, without  
fear of him looking back.  
  
I know how he looks at me. I love it.  
  
It also frightens me.  
  
I spent the rest of the flight staring at him. I never could bring myself to  
touch him though. To run my fingers through this short hair, to trace the  
outline of his face, his lips. I never could. I am a coward. Although I would  
never admit that out loud.  
  
  
  
I am staring at him now, but he does not notice. He's sprawled across the cheap  
bedspread of my motel bed. A report lies on his chest, half read.  
  
I was in the bathroom, getting ready for bed, when he knocked on my door.  
"Scully? You have the results from the tox screen?" he did not wait for a  
response before opening the motel door with his copy of the key. I'd tightened  
my robe around me self-consciously and peeked out the bathroom door. "Yeah, it's  
over on the table, right next to the laptop." I tilted my head in that direction  
and he entered the room all the way, closing the door behind him.  
  
He found the report, called out a "Thanks," and I heard him shuffle through the  
papers. I returned to the bathroom to finish washing my face. When I exited less  
than five minutes later, he was sound asleep.  
  
  
  
He does this now, falling asleep almost at random. For the first few weeks I'd  
been worried about his behavior. A change of sleeping habits was a classic  
symptom of depression. I'd even casually broached the subject with him. He'd  
laughed at my concern, though not unkindly. "What are you talking about Scully?  
I've never felt better." He looked at me then, really looked at me, and I  
believed him. He was ok. For the first time in a long time he really was ok. I  
felt ridiculous for bring the subject up.  
  
Then his gaze became uncomfortable, I could not bare it and I had to look away.  
"Speaking of sleep Scully... it looks like you could use some yourself." I wished  
then that I hadn't brought the subject up.  
  
"Thank you," I replied, my mouth twisting into what I hoped was a sardonic grin,  
"you look nice too."  
  
My light tone did not fool him. "No, I'm not saying it to be mean... Are you  
having those dreams again? Pfaster?" he offered, concern in his voice.  
  
I could have just said yes. It was a believable out; he would never know. "No.  
It's not the dreams."  
  
"Then what is it? Do you know?" But he turned away from me as he asked this. He  
swiveled the chair around to reach into the filing cabinet. His voice sounded  
far away, even though he was only a few feet away. When I did not answer right  
away, he looked back at me. He raised his eyebrows, indicating that he was  
waiting for an answer.  
  
"No." I lie. I let the lie come into my eyes. I beg him to ask for more. I beg  
him to dig deeper. If he did, I would tell him.  
  
He saw it. I know that he did. I saw the flicker of recognition pass over his  
face. But he didn't ask. Damn him. "Maybe you should try some warm milk." He  
turned his attention back to the filing cabinet. "It never worked for me, but  
who knows?"  
  
If he had asked further, I would not have told him. It was a good thing that he  
did not ask.  
  
  
  
I am cold suddenly, and I move to the thermostat and adjust it until I hear the  
heater kick in and feel the hot air rush in from the vents. That night in the  
forest I remember being cold. But not as cold as I am now. I pull my robe  
tighter around myself, redoing the knot. I am tight inside, the springs so  
tightly bound that I feel as if I'm going to burst.  
  
I so want to burst.  
  
I will not look at him, I say to myself. I will let him sleep for a few more  
minutes while I finalize my report. We're going home tomorrow morning and if I  
didn't finish the report tonight, I'll just have to finish later at the office.  
  
It is a sorry state of my life when I don't even believe the lies I tell myself.  
  
I cannot concentrate with him here. He distracts me. I'm not used this quiet,  
this stillness between us in this room now. Over the years I have grown used to  
the noises he makes, the rapping of his pencil against his desk, the soft  
cracking of sunflower seeds between his teeth; the constant shifting of his long  
body trying to discover a comfortable way to place it. How can he be so still?  
How can he sleep so soundly that I have to stand right next to him to make sure  
he is still breathing?  
  
Sleep comes so easy to him now, and I am envious. He is asleep again, making up  
for all of those hours lost. The nightmares have moved on, freeing him. This is  
not the first time that I have found him like this. Normally I wake him up and  
send him on his way. But this time I can't. I simply cannot. I need to see him  
like this. I want to remember what rest can be like.  
  
I find that I like watching him sleep. The freedom to stare at him openly is a  
privilege that I have fully come to embrace. Standing next to him, looking down  
on his slack face, I am surprised how soft he looks. The lines on his face are  
smoothed out, his expression one of relaxation. Is this how I look when I sleep?  
Somehow I doubt it.  
  
I want to touch him. I want to touch his face to find where the lines have gone.  
Where do they go when he sleeps? Can I send mine there as well?  
  
I don't touch him. I knew that I wouldn't. I used to be embarrassed when these  
impulses rose up in me, and proud when I could shove them back down, but not  
anymore. Now I'm only sad. Sad because I'm afraid that I'll always be able to  
shove, when all I want to do is pull.  
  
Pull him into me.  
  
But I don't want to think about that.  
  
I kneel beside the bed and rest my chin on top of the spread. It itches,  
irritates the delicate skin, and I bring my arms up and place my chin where they  
cross.  
  
His head is only inches from mine. An odd thrill runs through my body then. What  
if he woke now? What would I do? What excuse could I come up with to explain  
what I am doing?  
  
I have no answers but I remain where I am. I want him to wake.  
  
He is facing me, and I tilt my head so that we are on the same plain, eyes and  
lips even. I feel his breath against my face and I inhale, filling my lungs with  
him.  
  
He opens his eyes.  
  
I'm caught.  
  
Thank God.  
  
I don't look away and I can see that surprises him; it surprises myself.  
  
I wait for him to say something-- anything, but he doesn't. His face remains  
slack, and at first I think that he is not yet quite awake. Then I move my eyes  
to meet his and I see that he is very much awake.  
  
Neither of us speaks still. All I can hear is the rush of air through the vents.  
The heater is running, but I am not warm yet.  
  
He closes his eyes. A minute passes and I begin to think that he has fallen back  
asleep. This disappoints me. Is that all?  
  
"Are you going to sleep?" He finally speaks, finally gives in to the silence. 'I  
win.' I think inanely, as if this were a contest. Though, at times did feels  
like it is.  
  
"I can't." I say simply. There is nothing more to add.  
  
His eyes open again and he rapidly sits up. I lean away from him, startled by  
this sudden movement. I watch as the papers slide of his chest and slowly, too  
slowly drift to the floor. When I look back at him, his eyes are still on the  
report.  
  
Why didn't either one of us try to catch the fluttering papers?  
  
He turns to me and studies my face. "You should be tired." He knows I'm not  
sleeping. He's known this for weeks. The makeup can't hide the circles under my  
eyes; no amount of coffee can perk up my weary step, but this is the first time  
he's mentioned it since that day in the office. Why did he ignore it? Didn't he  
understand that I needed to have him see this, to have him mention it, to have  
me face this reality?  
  
I'm glad he ignored it.  
  
"I am." Again, nothing more to add. I am tired. I am exhausted. But sleep hides  
from me. Rest hides from me.  
  
He looks away, back to the bed, and nods slightly, thinking. He moves again,  
this time standing. I am still kneeling on the floor. He is towering above me  
and I cannot move.  
  
He reaches a hand down to me and I am able to bring my own up to meet his. He  
helps me stand. We are standing next to each other, his heat radiating off of  
him and I feel warm for the first time that night. He meets my gaze, and without  
breaking it, reaches past me to top of the spread. "You should go to bed."  
  
He never looks away from me and all that I can think about is the way his body  
curves over and around me, and how close his face is to mine. I could do  
something, something completely irresponsible. This is my chance. Is this the  
reason I cannot sleep? Am I waiting for this?  
  
He wants me to. I want to.  
  
I do nothing. And neither one of us is surprised.  
  
Both of us are sad.  
  
The sheets now pulled back, he straightens. "You need to rest," he repeats as he  
reaches for my waist, for the tie on my robe, and loosens the knot. He gently  
peels the robe from my shoulders and arms. He twists his body to one side and  
carefully lays my robe across a chair near the bed.  
  
Turing back to me, he places his hands on my shoulders and directs me to sit on  
the edge of the bed. He is standing directly in front of me. His hands have not  
left my shoulders, and I feel the index finger of his right hand trace light  
circles on my silk top. If I look straight ahead, my eye is level with the top  
button of his jeans. I tilt my head back to meet his face. The light is behind  
him, and I can't read his expression. Can he read mine? I wonder what it says.  
Does it say too much? Too little?  
  
Innumerable moments pass, and then he moves again. Leaning over me, I am guided  
onto my back.  
  
But he does not follow.  
  
Why doesn't he follow?  
  
He straightens and reaches to the foot of the bed to pulls the covers over me. I  
am a child, needing to be tucked in, to be protected from the monsters out  
there. But I know that I will not rest tonight.  
  
The bed is so cold.  
  
He begins to leave my side and I somehow manage to raise my hand to his,  
stopping him. I want to say something, even as I grip his hand too tightly. He  
doesn't struggle against me, and I am thankful for that. I am too consumed with  
my own internal struggle to fight him as well.  
  
I move my lips. I want to ask him so many questions. I want to ask him why he  
can sleep, and I cannot. I want to tell him to stay. I want to tell him to love  
me. I want to tell him what I'm waiting for.  
  
Nothing comes out. I watch our hands, mine gripping his tightly, his relaxed and  
taking it. Why doesn't he say something? Why can't he speak? Doesn't he know  
that this is as far as I can go?  
  
I want to cry. But I can't.  
  
I can't even pull his hand to bring him toward me. I can't even do that.  
  
But I can let go.  
  
Released from my hand, he moves to the door.  
  
"Mulder." I want to say more. I want to say it all. But I am happy to have said  
just that.  
  
He returns to me, but I can't say anything else. I can't. I want to, I have to.  
I can't.  
  
I know that Mulder sees this in my eyes, but does nothing. I hate him for that.  
  
I love him for that.  
  
But he finally speaks. "Tell me why."  
  
He says the one thing that I can't respond to. Tell him what? Tell him that I  
hate him for sleeping? That I covet his peace? That I want him to give me back  
my rest. Rest that I could always find but now I cannot. That the one thing  
that keeps me from sleeping is him? Do I tell him these things? How can I?  
  
I say nothing, and I feel my opportunity slip. I cannot look at him  
  
Disappointed, or perhaps frustrated he asks again, "Tell me. Tell me what you  
want."  
  
Why did I stop him? Why did I start something that I cannot finish? I know that  
I will not be able to say any more, say what I want.  
  
And then something rises up out of me. "Stay. Sleep with me."  
  
My words surprise him, they surprise me. Not because of their implication, an  
implication that I will not think of now, but because there are out there. I see  
the words, hanging in the thick air as if I nailed them in place.  
  
He asks, "Why?"  
  
Why? Why does he ask me this? Why must I explain? Can't he just accept what  
little I can give him?  
  
No, he cannot.  
  
I love him for that.  
  
"I think that this is what I've been waiting for." This is as far as I can go. I  
can say no more.  
  
I don't know if he will understand. How could he? It's not as if I could tell  
him.  
  
He has not responded to my comment, and I wonder if he ever will. He walks away  
from me again, but this time I do not have the courage to stop him. I spoke, and  
it brought me nothing.  
  
He pauses at the doorway, and I close my eyes. I cannot watch him leave. I hear  
the light switch being turned to the off position, but I don't hear the door  
opening.  
  
Then I can hear him.  
  
I open my eyes. The room is black. I hear him walk around the bed, and feel the  
vibration when his shin hits the edge. The other side of the bed dips down as he  
sits to remove his shoes. First one, then the other drops to the floor. I hear  
the change in his pockets clang against each other as he takes off his pants.  
  
The spread is pulled back and the bed dips once more, and then he is next to me.  
  
I have not moved, and I remain on my back. I can't move, so I wait for him to  
come to me.  
  
Thank god he does.  
  
He slides over and brings his arm across my chest. His hand grips my upper arm  
and he uses this leverage to pull me to him.  
  
Warm. I am so warm. And comfortable.  
  
I feel his lips against my cheek. One, then two light kisses. Then he speaks.  
The warm breath tickles my ear. "Sleep." He whispers. "Sleep."  
  
He says nothing more, but it is enough.  
  
I rest.  
  
end  
* * * * * *  



End file.
